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By hours the days, by days the months remove,
And then by months the years as fast decay:
Yea, Virgil's verse and Tully's truth to say,
That time flieth, and never claps her wings;
But rides on clouds, and forward still she flings.
At Beauty's bar as I did stand,
When false Suspect accused me,
George, quoth the judge, hold up thy hand,
Thou art arraigned of flattery ;
Tell therefore how thou wilt be tried,
Whose judgment here wilt thou abide ?
My lord, quoth I, this lady here
Whom I esteem above the rest
Doth know my guilt, if any were ;
Wherefore her doom shall please me best ;
Let her be judge and juror both,
To try me guiltless by mine oath.
Quoth Beauty, no, it fitteth not,
A prince herself to judge the cause;
Will is our justice, well ye wot,
Appointed to discuss our laws;
If you will guiltless seem to go,
God and your country quit you so,
Then Craft, the crier, call’d a quest
Of whom was falsehood foremost fere,
A pack of pick-thanks were the rest,
Which came false witness for to bear;
The jury such, the judge unjust
Sentence was said, “I should be truss'd.".
Jealous the gaoler bound me fast To hear the verdict of the bill ;
George, quoth the judge, now thou art cast,
Thou must go hence to Heavy Hill,
And there be hang'd all by the head;
God rest thy soul when thou art dead !
Down fell I then upon my knees
All flat before dame Beauty's face,
And cried, good lady, pardon me!
Who here appeal unto your grace;
You know if I have been untrue,
It was in too much praising you.
And though this judge doth make such haste To shed with shame my gu
Yet let your pity first be plac'd
To save the man that meant you good;
So shall you show yourself a queen,
And I may be your servant seen.
Quoth Beauty, well; because I guess
What thou dost mean henceforth to be,
Although thy faults deserve no less
Than justice here hath judg’d to thee,
Wilt thou be bound to stint all strife,
And be true prisoner all thy life?
Yea, madam, quoth I, that I shall
Lo, Faith and Truth my sureties :
Why then, quoth she, come when I call,
I ask no better warrantees.
Thus am I Beauty's bounden thrall,
Ather command when she doth call.
His love verses have an elegance and terseness, more modern, by an hundred years, than those of his contemporaries.
VERSES OF A STONY-HEARTED MAIDEN WHO BEGUILED THE
Why didst thou raise such woeful wail,
And waste in briny tears, thy days?
'Cause she that wont to flout and rail,
At last gave proof of woman's ways;
She did, in sooth, display the heart
That might have wrought thee greater smart.
Why, thank her then, not weep or moan ;
Let others guard their careless heart,
And praise the day that thus made known
The faithless hold on woman's art;
Their lips can gloze, and gain such root,
That gentle youth hath hope of fruit.
But, ere the blossom fair doth rise,
To shoot its sweetness o'er the taste,
Creepeth disdain in canker-wise,
And chilling scorn the fruit doth blast :
There is no hope of all our toil;
There is no fruit from such a soil.
Give o'er thy plaint, the danger's o'er
She might have poison’d all thy life;
Such wayward mind hath bred thee more
Of sorrow had she proved thy wife:
Leave her to meet all hopeless meed,
And bless thyself that so art freed..?
No youth shall sue such one to win
Unmark'd by all the shining fair,
Save for her pride and scorn, such sin
As heart of love can never bear;
Like leafless plant in blasted shade,
So liveth she-a barren maid.
SONNET ON ISABELLA MARKHAM.
When I first thought her fair, as she stood at the Princess' windoro, in
goodly attire, and talked to divers in the court-yard.
Whence comes my love ? O heart disclose;
It was from cheeks that sham'd the rose,
From lips that spoil the ruby's praise,
From eyes that mock the diamond's blaze:
Whence comes my woe? as freely own:
Ah me! 'twas from a heart like stone.
The blushing cheek speaks modest mind,
The lips befitting words most kind,
The eye does tempt to love's desire
And seems to say “'tis Cupid's fire;'
Yet all so fair but speak my moan,
Sith nought doth say the heart of stone.
Why thus, my love, so kind, bespeak
Sweet eye, sweet lip, sweet blushing cheek-
Yet not a heart to save my pain ;
O Venus take thy gifts again ;
Make not so fair to cause our moan,
Or make a heart that's like our own,
Next, like Aurora, Spenser rose,
Whose purple blush the day foreshows.
If Music and sweet Poetry agiee,
As they must needs, the sister and the brother,
Then must the love be great 'twixt thee and me,
Because thou lov'st the one, and I the other,
DowLand to thee is dear, whose heavenly touch
Upon the lute doth ravish human sense :
SPENSER, to me, whose deep conceit is such
As, passing all conceit, needs no defense:
Thou lov'st to hear the sweet melodious sound
That Phæbus' lute, the Queen of Music, makes ;
And I in deep delight am chicfly drown'd,
When as himself to singing he betakes.
One god is god of both, as poets feign,
One knight loves both, and both in thee remain,'
From Shakspeare's passionate Pilgrim.
But let no rebel satyr dare traduce
The eternal legends of thy fairy muse,
Renowned SPENSER! whom no earthly wight
Dares once to emulate, much less despite,
Sallust of France and Tuscan Ariost,
Yield up the laurel garland ye have lost!
SPENSER will stand alone, without a class, and without a rival.
We have now attained that stage in the progress
of the language, which is termed the GOLDEN AGE of